Having paddled across Nym Lake, the trip into the Quetico formally begins with the portage into Batchewaung. No more than fifty yards or so on the portage, the cares and strains of daily life begin to slide away, replaced by the familiar welcome of birch, spruce, aspen, pine and the yellowing of ferns on either side of the trail. It is a homecoming. Kristin and I first made this portage over forty years ago, in our early thirties. There have been many crossings since that first one left us breathless from the effort and the beauty. Homecoming and a new adventure joined together by a liturgy of returning. A Great Mystery it is.
The land is drier than I have ever seen it , scary dry. The water line marking the rocky shores of Batchewaung is another sign of just how parched the land is, longing for autumn rain. Back from the shore on the higher ridges, the aspen is already turning to spun gold. It looks more like late September than a couple of days before Labor Day weekend.
Soon into that first day of paddling, we begin to notice tiny maples growing all alone here and there. These tiny maples scattered about call to mind toddlers just starting their lives or grandmothers carrying the weight of their years. Wearing their bright scarlet, these little maples sing “O Canada” to us. These forest sprites spread across the northern landscape add joy and energy to the steady rhythm of putting paddle to water.
Over the course of our trip, the swatches of red reveal themselves more and more as we grow quieter, and our senses keener in response to a place where humans come only as pilgrims, not permanent residents. Kristin and I carry no cell phone , no satellite phone either. Can a trip be called an adventure without some degree of measured risk?
If we have a “wrinkle”, we will figure it out.
What about the maples ? As we paddle into Jessie and later Elizabeth for a day outing we spot more of them. It seems as if our eyes are growing a reflexive attraction to the blaze of red. As this visual attunement deepens, we begin to notice actual tree-sized maples back from water’s edge. There they are, the ancient ones, shimmering rubies flashing in a tapestry of green and gold.
The weather is unusually calm on this trip. We have only one day when a persistent southwest wind raises a bit of adrenaline. Mostly, there are only gentle winds that bring some pleasant cool to the hot and sunny days. The maples are before me, in my mind, and gradually they open my heart as well. As we paddle, I wonder about the maples. I know precious little about the ecology of the boreal forest, but their relative paucity suggests to me that we are outside their comfort zone. What is that like to be rooted outside of one’s comfort zone? Maybe these little maples are gnomes blown in from afar by straight line winds from the west or from the northeast on the backside of powerful wintertime low pressure. Who knows?
But here they are, living mostly solitary lives in the midst of great beauty. In their solitude I wonder if they have cultivated the keen vision and deep contemplative spirit of the hermit who lives with few needs and without the prattle of Main Street. Standing alone, mostly tiny with the occasional tall ancient one, these maples whisper how acceptance cultivates resilience. Acceptance and resilience, hm? Little maples in the big woods, no sentinel white pine, no mighty Norway pine.
As our trip rolls on, the miracle of the maples continues. Kristin and I call out to each other with considerable enthusiasm, “There’s one. There’s another and another, right over there next to that big rock by the water.” And so it goes.
The final portage completed, we decide to paddle back to the landing by a different route than the one we have always followed in the past. This decision proves to be a poor one. We get turned around and find ourselves in a maze of islands that doesn’t fit what our map shows us, so hot and tired, we sheepishly turn around and paddle back to the landing by the tried and true course.
Now in the air-conditioned car, we pause at the only convenience store in our beloved Atikokan for the celebratory ice cold can of Coca Cola paired with a large bag of freshly popped popcorn. Kristin and I maintain the quiet for the most part on the drive home. We are still filled up with the great Silence and Mystery of the forest, the lakes, the almost full moon, the soft wind and the maples glowing red at an early turning of the season.
Frank lives in rural Cook with his wife, Kristin Foster, and their one year old Black Lab, Ellie.